


Moving Day

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [15]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Banter, F/M, Fluff, Interior Decorating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 11:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20759822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Strike and Ellacott move to a new office when the demolishers finally take over Denmark Street.This has been in my head for months and months - pretty much since Lethal White - and finally got written, yay!





	Moving Day

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I’ve had notes on this, and discussed with Hobbes, so many times that this all felt eerily familiar as I wrote it. I really hope these are just my own past musings on the subject I have conjured and I haven’t accidentally nicked any ideas. No borrowing was intended!

Robin straightened up from her position kneeling by the skirting board, paintbrush in hand, stretching her back out, and paused a moment to smile around at their bustling new office.

It was coming together, finally. After endless trawling through property listings, she had finally found something to suit their budget. It was arguably less central in the capital, but it was nearer to Scotland Yard and still reasonably well connected in terms of transport. She and Strike had strolled around the area and found a suitable local pub, and he had declared their new abode eminently suitable. It was on the ground floor, easier for his leg, too.

Strike had yet to find somewhere to live, but he hadn’t really looked much yet, focussing all his energies on the office move which, when it had finally arrived, had had to happen quite quickly. He and Nick had moved his few possessions into the Herberts’ spare room yesterday before returning with the hire van to start to move the office across town. Although initially amused at Robin’s system of colour-coded post-it notes, Strike had learned to appreciate them as their mini army of helpers were able to correctly site everything in the new space without asking for advice.

So now here they were, finally in possession of the keys. On the opposite side of the room, Ilsa was up a stepladder, paintbrush in hand, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth in concentration as she cut in along the top of the wall, careful not to get paint on the ceiling that Nick had painted that morning. She wore a quaint but fetching set of paint-stained dungarees, and her hair was tied up in a scarf that also bore paint smears. Nick clearly found her outfit delightful, finding any excuse to pause as he passed her to squeeze her bottom or slide a hand up her thigh, making her giggle and bat him away, and everyone else roll their eyes and beg them to stop. Strike had rumbled a laugh at the sight of Nick’s tool belt slung across his hips, a useful receptacle for hammer, screwdrivers and pliers that he knew Ilsa found particularly appealing.

Strike and Nick were currently in the second, inner office that had been painted yesterday, assembling Ikea furniture with a not inconsiderable amount of bickering and muttered oaths. Robin grinned as she heard a bang and a complaining “ow!” every so often.

Spanner wandered past, trailing cables, and gave her a cheerful grin. Robin smiled politely back. She was trying not to encourage him too much. It was good of Nick’s brother to agree to help them out with the computer system and installation of the phones, but he’d made no secret of the fact that he was here mainly to spend some time flirting with Robin, pausing whenever he could to flash cheeky blue eyes at her and admire her handiwork or, she suspected, her backside as she made her way along the skirtings. He was good-looking, she supposed, in a skinny hipster kind of a way - not her type at all these days. She hid a fond smile as a particularly inventive string of swear words in Strike’s deep baritone reached her.

She turned her attention back to the tin of gloss paint next to her and was about to resume her task when there was a bang on the outside door that made her and Ilsa jump.

Robin scrambled up again and made her way to the door, which was yet to bear any label or sign marking their new business. They weren’t officially open again until after the weekend. The door swung open to reveal Eric Wardle.

“I bring supplies!” he announced, holding up a Tesco bag and leaning to kiss Robin on the cheek. She gave him a brush of her lips by his ear in return, holding her body away from his neatly pressed suit and her hands, one still clutching a paintbrush, out to her sides. “Careful, I’m painty,” she said, and he stepped back and passed her the bag. Robin peered into it and grinned. Tea, coffee, milk, hot chocolate and large assortment of biscuits.

“Okay, you can come in,” she teased, and the policeman followed her into the outer office, gazing around at the chaos.

“Um, opening Monday?” he said, doubtfully, and Robin laughed.

“We’ll be ready,” she said. “We have an army of helpers. That’s Ilsa up the ladder, an old school friend of Cormoran’s.”

“Hi!” Ilsa vaguely waved a paintbrush and went back to her work, brush in one hand and Tupperware pot of paint in the other.

“And that’s her brother-in-law, Dan, doing the phones and setting up the network.”

Spanner glanced up with a “‘sup” from the laptop he was tinkering with. He was sat on the floor, still surrounded by a mess of cables and phones and boxes, but Robin knew from experience that it would all come together in the end. Spanner knew exactly what he was doing.

“And Strike is through there. Careful, he’s battling Ikea’s finest,” Robin winked, and Wardle smirked and wandered through into the inner office.

“Right,” Robin murmured to herself. “Where’s the box with the kettle and the mugs?”

“Good grief, Gooner, you got enough furniture?”

Strike looked up, his face flushed, and Nick made a sound of protest. “Hold it still, Oggy!” He was crouched on the other side of a recumbent filing cabinet, trying to screw runners for a drawer into place.

“I am,” Strike growled. “Hi, Wardle.” He glanced around. “This is two rooms’ worth of furniture, they’re still decorating out there.”

“I saw.” Wardle leaned against Strike’s battered old desk, which was currently pushed up against the far wall. “How’s it going?”

Strike grunted. “I can find you a job.”

Wardle chuckled. “No, thanks. Just came to check out how far it is when I have to keep trekking over here to bail you out.”

“Ha ha,” Strike said drily, standing up straight with a grimace as Nick waved him away and bent to his task of screwing the last screws into place. “Wardle, this is Nick, an old mate. I might have mentioned him, the one who’s dad’s a cabbie.”

Wardle’s face lit up in a cheeky grin. “The fellow Spurs fan? A man of good taste, then.” He chortled at Strike’s scowl as he realised he was well and truly outnumbered. Nick hauled himself to his feet, and the two men shook hands. Behind Wardle, in the outer office, they heard another knock on the front door and Robin went to answer it.

“I’m declaring a break,” Strike said, glad of Wardle’s appearance providing an excuse to call a temporary halt to proceedings. It had been days of walking, carrying, bending, lifting. His leg and back hurt. So far he had been impatiently dismissing Nick’s attempts to get him to slow down, to let others do more, but he was aware he wasn’t going to last much longer. Pride battled with sense, and was beginning to lose. If he pulled his back or wrenched his knee, he’d be out of action far longer.

Robin poked her head in at the door. “Kettle’s boiled, and Vanessa’s here with cakes,” she said. “Tea break?” Behind her, Spanner was pouring hot water into mugs. Strike wondered darkly where their tech consultant’s sudden interest in tea-making had come from.

Strike and Nick nodded gratefully. Strike glowered at the partially assembled filing cabinet lying on its back on the floor and resisted the urge to kick it as they turned away. His temper, already on a short fuse due to tiredness and pain, threatened to flare up at every young, flashing smile Spanner threw Robin’s way. He had had to grit his teeth and remind himself that this was his mate’s brother, the same lad he’d known since he was seven years old, and surely not a potential rival for Robin’s attention. His very presence served to remind Strike painfully of the age gap, however. He’d always seen Nick’s baby brother as barely more than a child, but the slender young man was in fact the same age as Strike’s junior partner. The very thought made him feel older, fatter and more ungainly than he normally did.

The group assembled in the outer office, and greetings were exchanged. Ilsa climbed down from her ladder, balanced her paintbrush on its pot on the dust sheet, and smiled across at her husband. Robin and Spanner passed mugs of tea round, and everyone took a slice of cake from Vanessa’s Tupperware box. Silence reigned for a time.

“So are you nearly done?” Vanessa asked.

Robin looked around and nodded. “We are, actually,” she said. “Painting is nearly done.”

Spanner waved a hand at the trailing wires. “Everything’s connected,” he said. “I’ll start fixing the wires down now. Just need to connect Fed’s computer when that’s assembled.”

Nick nodded. “We’re on the last filing cabinet,” he said. “It’s slow going, fiddly. But then we can get all the furniture moved into place.”

Strike sighed a little and shifted his weight onto his good leg. It made his back hurt, but at the moment his bad leg hurt more. Eric Wardle cast him a sideways glance but said nothing.

Robin grinned round at them all. “Cormoran and I want to buy you all dinner to say thanks for your help,” she said. “Company budget, though, so it’ll be fish and chips.”

Nick laughed. “Sounds perfect.”

Strike patted his pockets and found his cigarettes. “Going out for a breath of fresh air,” he said, moving to the door.

As soon as he’d closed the door behind him, Wardle set his mug down. “Let’s get this furniture finished,” he said to Nick, who nodded. Robin smiled at them fondly as they headed back into the inner office. She knew as well as they did that Strike wouldn’t argue if presented with a fait accompli. And besides, he needed to get his computer set up so Spanner could finish.

By the time Strike returned, having taken the opportunity to smoke a couple of restorative cigarettes, work was well under way again. Robin had finished her painting, dumped her brush in a jar of white spirit and was now organising her desk, the sole piece of furniture currently in the outer office. Wardle and Spanner were moving filing cabinets into place while Nick put the final touches to the last one. Vanessa and Ilsa were eyeing the walls and Ilsa was dabbing at missed bits with her brush.

From chaos, order was suddenly emerging. Within an hour, the furniture was all in place and Strike’s computer was assembled. Sat at his desk, with Spanner fiddling with cables and getting him to repeat information from the screen, Strike was glad of a chance to rest his leg and intrigued by the sounds of spraying he could hear from the other room. Everyone he could see through the half-open door was wearing a mask, and he could smell spray paint despite every window and the front door being open.

Eventually Spanner declared himself satisfied with the phone system and the internet connection, and the mini intranet he had set up so that Strike and Robin could hand files back and forth securely without having to email them. He had tutted at the laptop and spent some time upgrading its security and getting it, too, attached securely to the intranet. He sloped off, declining fish and chips, with a dark warning about viruses and a promise to come back in a month and check everything over, this last aimed firmly at Robin.

Strike emerged from his office and regarded the neat, rust-brown guitar stencils Ilsa had sprayed onto the wall behind Robin’s desk. Robin grinned up at him.

“I wanted to bring something of Denmark Street with us,” she said softly.

“We did,” Strike replied, pointing to the little mock-up of the street sign that Robin had ordered from Etsy and mounted on the wall above where the kettle was to sit. “I like these, though,” he added, indicating the stencils.

Ilsa grinned. “Not just a pretty face,” she said. “And a talented lawyer.”

Strike grinned at her, then looked around. Things looked largely finished. “Time for the chippy?”

“I’ll stroll down with you,” Wardle offered.

Robin nodded. “Good plan,” she said. “I’m going to hoover and dust, now we’ve stopped building stuff.”

Ilsa nodded. “I’ll pack up all the decorating stuff.”

“I just need to put up that last shelf,” Nick said, waving his arm towards Strike’s office.

By the time Strike and Wardle returned, everything was looking ship-shape. Robin’s desk looked exactly as it had in Denmark Street, and the familiarity of it was a comfort in the unfamiliar, paint-fume-filled surroundings. She’d set up a tea-making station in the far corner opposite the door, where a little sink backed onto the wall separating the office from the downstairs bathroom. The begrudgingly moved farting sofa sat with its back to the wall through to Strike’s office, and Vanessa and Robin sat chatting with fresh mugs of tea.

Strike looked around. “Where’s Ilsa?”

Robin waved at his closed office door. “Went to help Nick with the shelf. He had a bracket needed holding.”

Strike nodded and pushed open the door. “Food’s here— Oh, for fuck’s sake, you two.” A squeak and a giggle emerged from the office before he slammed the door again.

“They’ll be out in a moment,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes, and Robin giggled.

By the time they had sorted out whose was which order, Nick and Ilsa had appeared. Flushed, Ilsa was tucking her T-shirt back into her dungarees. Robin regarded them fondly. “You’ve got paint on your face, Nick.”

Ilsa smiled at him and wiped at his cheek, following up with a gentle kiss on his mouth. “Must have happened when you were painting the ceiling.”

“That’s not white,” Robin said, giggling. Nick shot her a mock glare. “Sh!”

Strike shook his head. “Eat your tea and take your fun and games home,” he told them, and Nick grinned at him shamelessly.

The six sat around and tucked into their fish and chips, the girls wedged onto the sofa, Strike sat at Robin’s desk and Wardle and Nick on the floor.

“Ooh, wait!” Ilsa suddenly cried, wooden fork poised. “Where’s the cool bag?”

“Under my desk, I think,” Robin replied. Ilsa put down her food and went and rummaged for it, and triumphantly produced a bottle of champagne and a pack of plastic cups. “Happy new office!”

“Aw, bless you, guys,” Robin said, smiling mistily. Nick opened the champagne and poured it while Ilsa passed the glasses around and, with the tiniest of sideways glances at Robin, dropped the cork into the pen pot on her desk.

“Cheers!”

A warm chorus of congratulations and thanks was offered and exchanged, and they all ate and drank in comfortable quiet. Strike gazed around at their new office space, that had looked so dark and tatty just a few days ago and was now totally ready for Monday morning. Robin had even found the time to have business cards printed with their new contact details, and they sat neatly on the corner of her desk and his, ready to be handed out. A new plant sat next to the bravely surviving old one on the windowsill. All was well with the world.

All too soon the meal and chat had come to an end. Ilsa collected up the cups, and Nick the fish and chip papers. It was the work of a few moments to tidy everything up.

“What’s next?” Wardle asked. “You got plans tomorrow?”

Strike shrugged. “I assumed we’d still be doing this,” he said. “I’ve got to check over the flat one last time and hand the keys to Denmark Street back. And we need to return the van.”

“Let’s go have one last look round now,” Robin said impulsively. “I’ll drive.”

He nodded. “Sure. Saves me the trek tomorrow.”

Ilsa pulled her keys out and prised her house key from the bunch and handed it to Strike. “We’ll see you later, then.”

Strike nodded, and Nick winked at him. “Much later,” he added, sliding his hand across Ilsa’s dungaree-clad backside.

Strike made a noise of disgust, but laughed. “I’ll check out the local here, it is Saturday night after all,” he said. “I promise I won’t show up before ten!”

Ilsa glanced at her watch, giggled, and pulled her husband towards the door, pausing to pepper Robin with kisses. “It looks great,” she said, waving her arm at the office.

“Thank you,” Robin hugged her warmly, and then the Herberts were gone, swiftly followed by Wardle and Vanessa, heading to the Tube and the bus stop respectively.

Strike and Robin looked at one another, and around at their new space.

“A new beginning,” Robin said, smiling.

“And more importantly, a five-year lease!” Strike said. “Security for once. Just have to find a flat now.”

“You can start that tomorrow,” Robin replied, picking up the van keys. “Come on.”

They drove back to Denmark Street in companionable quiet. Robin took a risk and left the van on the street outside the building while they popped upstairs to check around the empty space one last time.

The office was dark and empty. Robin checked the old fridge, the cupboard and shelves, while Strike went up to conduct one last sweep of his flat. Neither found anything forgotten.

Robin could hear Strike’s heavy tread on the floorboards above as he moved around the space. She was going to miss him being right there all the time, always on hand. He’d probably be glad not to be.

She wandered through to the inner office, her fingers trailing on the pollyfilla’d dent in the wall caused by Strike’s scuffle at the end of the Landry case. She remembered the disastrous state of the office when she’d arrived, and how she’d had to borrow tea and coffee from downstairs to offer a client.

She remembered them both pretending that Strike wasn’t sleeping in this very office. She strolled back out to her office and remembered sitting at her desk, wading through the Bombyx Mori manuscript, horrified and fascinated. She remembered standing frozen, staring into a box containing a severed leg. She remembered Strike snoring on the farting sofa. She remembered cups of coffee, bouncing ideas off one another, remembered that Strike had always listened to her like no one else had. She remembered learning to see the world Strike’s way, learning to analyse cases and probe facts as he guided her and taught her what questions to ask. Remembered how she had respected him, and how that respect had grown to liking, and then to fondness, and...

Strike was dismayed to find Robin crying when he finally locked up his flat and returned to the office level.

“Hey, hey—” He slid an arm around her shoulder and she sniffled into the side of his chest a little. “What’s brought this on?” He fished in his pocket for a tissue and handed it to her.

Robin shook her head and pulled herself together a little, wiping her eyes. “Just thinking,” she managed. “It’s the end of an era.”

Strike grinned fondly down at her. “The beginning of a new one,” he said stoutly. “Look on the bright side. There’ll be room for both our names on the new door. And no stairs I can almost push you to your death down!”

Robin giggled wetly and blew her nose. “That is a silver lining,” she agreed. “I just— I’ve been so happy here.”

He smiled at her gently, a step away now as she moved back to better mop herself up. “We’ll be happy at the new place, too,” he promised. “My leg certainly will be!”

Laughing properly now, Robin stuffed the soggy tissue into her pocket. “Okay, I’m done being maudlin.”

He grinned his big grin. “Good. So, I have promised to stay out until ten o’clock. Shall we take the van back to the office and go and check out our new local?”

Robin smiled back up at him. “I’d like that.”

He held the door open for her, and locked it behind them, pausing to run his fingers over the stencilled letters one last time. How his life had changed since he had stuck them in place.

“After you.” Strike indicated that Robin should go first, and for the last time they descended the metal stairs together.


End file.
